


Consumption

by TheEternal (XxmaniacxX)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Canon Dialogue, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s03e06 Dolce, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, i really don't know how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:26:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26633587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxmaniacxX/pseuds/TheEternal
Summary: Dolce’s missing time from bullet wound to soup (with and some canon divergence)
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 20





	Consumption

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't stop thinking about why Hannibal re-dressed WIll before attempting to eat his brains, so I wrote this.

His shirt peeled off, linen soaked in blood lets the scissors glide through with ease. The hint of a scar, the rich smell of sweat. He eyed the peaking marking of his own making, quickly, trying not to give himself away. 

_Subtle_

Will snarked, in pain but not shying away from the other man.

“Can an artist, - their gazes met, with a calm resolution - not see his finished work?”

The other man closed his eyes and grunted, as the needle came in. Numbness washed his arm and shoulder away, but his whole body still ached. 

It wasn’t unbearable but his conscience flickered. Diligent hands taking the bullet out, soft fingers unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, a calloused grip leading him to the bathroom. Warm light flooded the rooms, but the tub seemed lacquered in nicotine-yellow under such; uninviting, even for a half-awake man. Decided on sitting down on the porcelain toilet lid, instead.

“I’m going to help you clean the blood off your skin and clothes, is that alright?” Kneeling, same eye level. A question which he already knew the answer to.

Will nodded, his cottoned tongue wouldn’t let him utter a word. Without any hint of panic he wondered what numbing agent Hannibal had injected into his bloodstream. Too clouded to keep that thought straight, he wandered back into the poorly lit scene.

It snapped back in place the reason they’d gone to the bathroom in the first place.

He tried to take his already open shirt off, but couldn’t feel half his back. Gracefully, he toppled over the other man, almost hitting his head against the tiled wall. Hands under armpits, pulling him into a half-sitting position again. A swift lunge forwards, as if an armless hug, and the shirt was off for good. 

Hands. Dream-like state, where the wet rag was relief, refreshment; blood was too alike his haze, waltz in crimson red, and Hannibal’s hands lead the way. He found himself once again, passive under his touch. Always there to bandage, to tend to his never-ending surplus of wounds. It almost felt like he was spectating a painter, every brush stroke precise, thoughtfully pressured. As if

_my body is your canvas_

The other man stopped in his tracks. Piercing gaze, soft eyes. Had he spoken out loud? Or was it his imagination? Genuine surprise was not an expression that knew its way around Lecter’s face. 

Half-lidded stare, the kind the high and the drunk give, answered the questions hung in the air. He sighed, and continued. If he was to consume his brains, he had to be clean. And as sober as the anesthetics allowed him to be. 

Ceremonial, symbolic. The white shirt was laid, already ironed out, for Will to wear, once he was no longer stained. But the blood had started to dry, and he had to scrub his shoulder, where the numbness would start to fade at any moment. It was a motion he’d never done before with an uncooperative partner, the fine line between rough and tender; and he was sure he’d blanked out again when a hair brushed past his knuckles. 

Those eyes were boring into him.

Will’s head was now resting on the hand holding the rag, laid on the shoulder, sideways staring at Hannibal. For allegedly not liking eye contact, he initiated it far too often. 

He’d made him stop. 

Curls falling on a face so soft they seemed to bruise it. He could tell he was a thousand miles away, talking to a different version of him. Maybe at his office, in their best clothes, facing each other in front of the fireplace, a glass of Malbec, or maybe Chianti, still swirling in their hands. Yes, he knew he was there the moment he started talking, hoarse but calm. 

_You’ve given or tended to my scars, and scars are chapters of life, don’t you think?_

He’d indulge him, as they used to.

“They are narratives started in media res for the onlooker, but alike an epilogue for the owner. Wounds on the other hand, are spilled ink; if they achieve coherence, you have written a novel”

_And if they only stain the page, a discarded letter, not deemed worthy of being sent._

“What sentences do you have on your body, Will? Or are they closer to ubiquitous wax drips?”

_I’d like to compare myself to an open envelope. Cracked seal along the torso, return address on the back._

Hannibal closed his eyes for a moment, mentally pouring more wine.

“Was I the seal?”

A muffled groan shattered the illusion.

The other man started slipping forward, fading back into unconsciousness. Hannibal caught him, once again, let his head rest on the nook of his neck. Half hugs and blood. Feelings weighed heavily on him as a lump of sugar on his tongue, the aftertaste of melting snow. 

Taking in his scent, he lingered a moment too long. Doubt creeped in. 

Would he be able to eat his brains, eat **him**? Or would he find himself in the kitchen, already too late, unable to stomach the sight of it in the cutting board, in the searing pan? 

Knotted throat. Love is about consumption. Love is about submission. There was no other way. He couldn’t allow himself the hesitation. Worry slipped out of his mind as quickly as it had barged in.

But his hands still trembled from time to time, as he finished cleaning the blood off Will. 

_What ’s for dinner?_

A mumble, as he lead him to the table.

“Never ask. Spoils the surprise”

Hannibal took one last indulging look at Will: strapped to the chair, cleaner, still struggling to wake up. A sobering but dream-like sight; he licked his lips unconsciously. 

It was time.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it, feedback and comments are encouraged!


End file.
